


The Realm of Possibility

by KissTheBoy7



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Oral Sex, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3252275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KissTheBoy7/pseuds/KissTheBoy7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie realizes he's bi rather abruptly. Florence gets her way for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Realm of Possibility

It's like she's there and moderately sane and exasperated as usual one moment, and the next, she's backed him onto the bed and fallen between his legs.

Freddie isn't quite sure what to do.

"Florence, what-" and she's got his zipper down without much fuss (he wonders if she's done this for him before - probably, with the number of times he's been blackout drunk in her care; he wonders if she held his dick for him too while he pissed and now he's hard, just a little, okay, maybe a little more than a little, and  _ohGodstopnodon't-_

It's seriously fucked up how fast he's got his fingers tangled in her hair, exhaling in a short pant, watching her lips descend so delicately to ring around the base of his cock.

It's not supposed to feel good, and it's kind of funny that he thinks so because he's spent so long boasting the opposite to anyone who will listen. He's not _queer_ but sex is beneath him - except with Anatoly. It's not worth his attention. It's not going to get him anywhere, except to the end of this breath and the end of the next and he's making all of these strange noises as she sucks in earnest, face scrunched up in concentration sort of like when she's especially frustrated with him in the morning and  _ohh-_

He's definitely not queer, then.

This is all becoming unnecessarily complicated and he doesn't like it. Except. Well. He does _like_   _it._

He'll make excuses later, though, because nobody with lips as swollen and glossy as Florence's has ever swallowed his cock whole like this, has ever dug their manicured nails into his denim covered thighs and pressed him down against the bed and knelt over him like they know exactly what they're doing and all he has to do is enjoy the ride. It's just Florence and the steady, desperate pressure mounting and coiling in his balls, tingling right to the head, touching the back of her  _throat_ and Jesus, but Anatoly never did this for him.

(Yet.)

(But he feels like a traitor for thinking that way.)

He doesn't know what he's saying but his eyes are squeezed shut, his hips are arching. his fingernails are tearing through the bedsheets because she looked like she might bite him when he tangled them in her hair, and it's falling around her face now and tickling him and brushing in places that really shouldn't feel so good except they do and he's starting to look forward to being fucked in a month and a half if only to get over this morbid curiosity he's developed.

She sucks at the root and tongues the head like she does to her ice cream when he feels guilty and takes her down to the parlor on the corner. (he'll probably owe her a trip after this, or possibly two) She touches and teases and his throat is constricted, shudders wracking his body as he comes with his head tipped back and his lip bitten bloody and his thoughts full of FlorenceFlorenceFlorence.

He still can't entirely believe that this is working, that they  _work._

How long has he spent stubborn, ignoring the possibility, afraid-

But he's not afraid of this. That's ridiculous. This is all he did, last week, with Anatoly - it shouldn't be different with her.

He's panting, sweat cooling on his brow and he's definitely going to need a shower. Florence lies out beside him, stroking his hair, softly, kissing a line down his neck and breathing him in-

(He must smell disgusting - he feels disgusting, ashamed - but Florence doesn't care because Florence never cares. Florence picks up the pieces like she was made to do it, puts him back together, takes care of him.)

(She really must love him.)

(He really must love  _her.)_

and for the first time since he was twelve years old he doesn't see his mother spread out on the bed beside him.


End file.
